A Song of Green Valleys.

Lord, as I journey down the way,Grant me good work for every day,And, till my labor here is past,To work with Thee until the last!

Words are poor vehicles for the carrying of thought. The glance of only one bright eye can tell a sweeter story than was ever written out in all the books of men.

A Song of Green Valleys,—the valleys new bornWith the gold of the wheat and the green of the corn,Where the roses arise from the dews of the nightAnd the paths for Love's feet are a-swoon with delight!

The Voice of the Valleys! The brooks to the seasMingle multiplied praises with Love's lullabies,And the shouts of glad children exultingly riseFrom the daisies of earth to the stars of the skies.

The calm of the Valleys! The raptures increaseWith the calls of content and the pleasures of peace,And the homes of the happy their gladness engageFrom the rose-days of youth to the snow-days of age.

The bliss of the Valleys! There life blossoms sweet,And the night-time and noon time in melody meet,Till the sorrows that saddenthecare-clouded dayFind the smiles ever beaming and vanish away.

A Song of Green Valleys! O, joys that they bringWhere the breeze whispers love in the love-days of spring,And the songs of the thrush from the love gardens floatWith the music that spills from the mocking-bird's throat!

A Song of Green Valleys! O, valleys that spreadFrom the croon of the babe to the dirge of the dead,Beyond the long journey we leave you,—but then,God grant we shall meet you and have you again!

He was a four year old Oklahoma Fountleroy, in knee pants, and with golden curls that would make an angel envious. His face still wore the divine beauty of the cradle, and his large, luminous eyes reflected an innocence unspotted of the world.

But the carpenter on the building did not appreciate his company. He was always in the way. So the carpenter thought he would frighten him away, by a story of horrible danger.

"Do you see that big man coming there?" said the carpenter to him.

The child nodded assent.

"Well," continued the carpenter; "you would better run away before he gets you. That big man eats a boy for breakfast every morning, and he may eat you."

A look of ineffable scorn slowly penetrated beneath the curls. The large, innocent eyes took on an expression of supreme contempt. Then the angel indifferently said:

"I ate a boy once; he was a nigger!"

A drummer is known by the stories he tells.

Don't be in a hurry to do a mean thing. You'll have plenty of time to get sorry if you put it off until day after tomorrow.

When a man stops to count the cost of a noble deed, temptation has already stormed and captured the fortifications of his honor.

The $1 bill is a very popular brand among the people, but if history makes no mistake, it takes the $1,000 bill to secure votes in the Missouri legislature.

"I notice," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "Thet the self-made man is always kept so busy tellin' about the fine job of work he turned out, thet he never has time to get the roof on an' the doors an' winders hung. A self-made feller generally shows a rough job put together with dull tools an' in mighty poor taste when you git to lookin' at it real clost, an' it could be mightily improved on by a middlin' sight of polishin', wood-filler an' hard-oil, well rubbed in!"

What shall it matter, Dear, how goes the weather.—We with our hands and our hearts linked together,—We with our faces, till daisies we're under,Set to the skies with their welcomes of wonder.

What shall it matter, Dear, how goes the battle?Something is greater than all of its rattle,Something that gladdens the heart with the storyTelling of Love and Love's infinite glory.

What shall it matter, Dear, how the world use us?'Tis but a show and its antics amuse us!World that knows nothing of all our sweet gladnessAnd of the love that dispels every sadness!

What shall it matter, then, what shall it matter?Peace still awaits after all of earth's clatter!Peace still awaits, all our love-dreams adorning,There in the bliss of the Glorified Morning!

Life's experiences are very much the same as when we go fishing. The biggest fish always gets away. But even then we have a pretty good feast on the minnows.

Yesterday is life's departed king; tomorrow holds all the possibilities of clown and emperor. Only today wears the glittering crown and the purple robes of power.

Don't pray for what you want, and quit with the prayer. Spit on your hands and grab it as it hurries by.

The lawn-mower is quite a play thing for the city-bred man, but in the interest of humanity he ought to be vaccinated against the back ache.

It's no difference what you're doing,Whether you're asleep or ain't,When the 'phone begins pursuingIt will catch you,—no complaint!For its call is strong and steady,And it always answer brings,For you hurry with your "ready!"When the 'phone bell rings!O, it interrupts your visionWith its long, unceasing howl;It dispels your dreams elysianWith insistence fresh and foul!O, it summons you at meal-timesWith a joy that stays and clings,Till you swear it's always de'il-timesWhen the 'phone bell rings!It's no matter where you're straying,—In the garden, barn or bed,There's no time to spend in praying.Or in playing, quick or dead;And if Gabriel "in that morning"Wants a good old trump that swings,Just let "central" sound his warningWhile the 'phone bells rings!

O, it interrupts your visionWith its long, unceasing howl;It dispels your dreams elysianWith insistence fresh and foul!O, it summons you at meal-timesWith a joy that stays and clings,Till you swear it's always de'il-timesWhen the 'phone bell rings!

It's no matter where you're straying,—In the garden, barn or bed,There's no time to spend in praying.Or in playing, quick or dead;And if Gabriel "in that morning"Wants a good old trump that swings,Just let "central" sound his warningWhile the 'phone bells rings!

Doan't yuh grumble, brudder!Doan't yuh nebber doubt it,Debbil gwine ter git yuh'Foh yuh think erbout it!Put yuh in de iurn-worksWhar de sinnah weeps,Loadin' up de injinesShovelin' coal fer keeps!

"I've often noticed," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he slowly filled his Missouri meerschaum with Virginia twist,—"I've offen noticed thet nerve is the most vallyble asset in the credit items of human life. The pore man thet's got a plenty of it is an uncrowned king with pears's an' di'monds at his command, but the king thet lacks it will soon be uncrowned too. When a rich man er a famous man gits down in the mouth onct an' loses his nerve, it's all day with him in a minnet, an' a rope or a six-shooter ginerally winds him up. But if a feller hangs on to his nerve, he is alright fer the sights and scenes of this world an' he needn't be nussin' any worries 'bout the next one."

Sparrow on the wagon-shed,Chirping with a will;Robin in the cherry-treeWarblin' fit to kill!Every thing's rejoicin',Hidin' of the wrong,—So hands around, my honey,And we'll join the song!Mock-bird on the chimney top,—How that rascal mocks,—Spillin' songs of melody,From his music-box!Over all the live-long placeAll the pleasures throng,So hands around, my honey,And we'll join the song!

Sparrow on the wagon-shed,Chirping with a will;Robin in the cherry-treeWarblin' fit to kill!Every thing's rejoicin',Hidin' of the wrong,—So hands around, my honey,And we'll join the song!

Mock-bird on the chimney top,—How that rascal mocks,—Spillin' songs of melody,From his music-box!Over all the live-long placeAll the pleasures throng,So hands around, my honey,And we'll join the song!

"I done heah dat de dimmycrats kinder comp'omised at de St. Looey convention meetin'," said old Black Mose. "I tell you, man, dat com'p'omisin' bis'ness am a great thing, suah! My ole woman en' me hez quahled en' fit en' fussed erroun' fer nigh fohty yeahs ober wheddah I should pack in de watah er chop de wood, en' we fin'ly comp'omised de mattah by hur a doin ob 'em bofe!"

Pie-million, cantaloope;Musk-million tall;But de blessed worter-millionAm de bes' of all!Whar de worter-million grows,Hebben's dar bechune de rows!

"It hain't so much difference what kind of work you do as how you do it," said Uncle Ezra Mudge. "The feller thet sets around an' kicks on the kind of a job he has never gits many others offered him, while the chap thet does good work at whatsumever he gits giner'ly finds a ladder to climb up to the top.

"I reckon David out there herdin' the sheep never kicked much on his job, an' I'll bet four 'coon-skins thet he wuz the best sheep-herder in all the Promised Land, er the Lord wouldent a-picked him out an' set him to work at the job of bein' king."

Where the world is going is not of much consequence. It's where you are going that cuts the ice.

When the sermon gets over thirty minutes long, the Devil comes to church and takes a seat in the Amen corner.

Heaven is in every man's easy reach, but some are too contrary to even tip-toe for the blessings of the other Kingdom.

Don't worry or fret, my dearie!The shadows will soon go by;Before half your tears have vanishedThe sun's in the happy sky;There's trouble enough, my dearie,In days of a glad life long,But Sorrows will die with no one to sighWith Love and a little of Song!

There are some things about "our island possessions" which will bear imitation this hot weather. The costumes Of the Igorrotes, for instance.

Mr. Knowing How commands a princely salary while Hard Work is on the bum hunting for wages.

Some people are so anxious for happiness that they make themselves miserable in running it down.

Whether we learn much in the school of experience or not, we all register for the full term and pay the entire tuition mentioned in the catalogue.

Charity is something of which the mills of human life never turn out an over-production. Even some of the blessed saints could use a little more in their daily walk and conversation.

All the path is dark with shadowsAnd the road is hard to see,But there's sunshine on the hill-topsAnd that's the way for me!

There are many blessings in this world, but a shade-tree at the end of the cotton row, and a water-melon cooling in a seventy-foot well are two of its greatest joys.

This life, Dear Heart, seems all so small and meanSince thou art gone,—its prizes vague and vain,Its efforts fruitless and its glories lean,And all its heaped-up treasures worthless gain!

Amid them all my slow feet wander lone,—My heart cries hopeless for its perfect mate;The fancies murmur and the longings moanFor thee whose absence leaves me desolate.

Yet, somewhere, somehow, in the years that shineWith God's perfected wisdom throned above,I know thou wait'st my coming, with divineEnraptured welcomes of supremest love.

The Vision beckons, and I fix my gazeUnchanging to the promise of the skies:The full fruition of these lonely daysDwells in the heaven of thine angel eyes!

What matter, Dear, though dullard thousands throngAnd jostle rudely at Life's holy feast?The dull ears hear no tender strains of Song,And they that know Love best know Love the least.

And still with yearning hands that longing gropeAnd straining eyes that search to pierce the doom,I creep the path-ways of my only Hope,And seek the Loved One passed beyond the Gloom!

It's no matter how exclusiveMen may be in social ways,And how uppishly their mannersEvery one of them displays:Born to home-spun or the purple,Very rich or very poor,They're at home to every callerWhen the Dollar pounds the door!They may dwell in stately mansionsWith extensive yards and grounds;They may run their automobilesAnd play golf through all the rounds;But within their mountain villasOr resorts by ocean shore,They're at home to every callerWhen the Dollar pounds the door.Whether in the humble stationOr the mighty seats of state,Eating crusts to banish hungerOr a-feast on fruits of fate,—There's no one who's found forgettingThat great lesson taught of yore,For they're home to every callerWhen the Dollar pounds the door.Mister Dollar, Mister Dollar!You have such a winning way,That I'd like you in the fam'lyEvery hour of every day!And no matter where I'm staying,Please break in with rush and roarFor I'm always glad to see you,Mr. Dollar, at the door?

They may dwell in stately mansionsWith extensive yards and grounds;They may run their automobilesAnd play golf through all the rounds;But within their mountain villasOr resorts by ocean shore,They're at home to every callerWhen the Dollar pounds the door.

Whether in the humble stationOr the mighty seats of state,Eating crusts to banish hungerOr a-feast on fruits of fate,—There's no one who's found forgettingThat great lesson taught of yore,For they're home to every callerWhen the Dollar pounds the door.

Mister Dollar, Mister Dollar!You have such a winning way,That I'd like you in the fam'lyEvery hour of every day!And no matter where I'm staying,Please break in with rush and roarFor I'm always glad to see you,Mr. Dollar, at the door?

"I've wunder'd through this vale of sunshine for about sev'nty years," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he filled his Missouri meerschaum for the twentieth time, "an' I never yit seen a feller thet amounted to shucks who wuz allus a-hangin' on to someone else. The pore soul thet hain't got enough git up an' git to him to strike out fer hisself an' find a path of his own through the woods is mighty nigh sartin to git lost in the brush.

"Purty nigh ev'ry feller I ever knowed thet did anything wuth while did it by usin' the climbers on his own legs. Ef he stan's 'round waitin' to borry somebody else's tools, he wastes a mighty sight of his own time an' don't know how to use 'em when the other feller gits ready to be accommedatin'!"

Don't you grumble at the weather when the clouds are hanging flat,For the sun will soon be shining and you'll have to growl at that,And before in working order you your growler well have got,You will have to change its focus for another kind of shot!

Don't you grumble at the fortune that the Fates incline to send!If it's good, rejoice with gladness; if it's bad, why, make it mend;And before you hit the gravel for the world beyond the years,Things will balance pretty even through the tangled smiles and tears.

Don't you grumble at the meanness that heaps up your path with wrong!There are golden hearts of goodness that are full of love and song,And along the ways you wander all their anthems ever riseLike a chorus of the angels from the mansions in the skies!

Don't you grumble at the weather! Don't you growl around at fate!In this world of life and labor, you must fish or cut the bait;And if here you're always fretting o'er each little sob and sigh,You will hardly relish heaven when you reach the Bye and Bye.

"Go 'way, man!" said an obsarvant Logan county darkey. "Doan't yuh come en talk to me erbout gittin' rich er bein' pooah! Nary one ob dem things bodders me. Ef perlitical campaigns'll jes' las' all de time en canderdates run all de yar roun', dis worl'll be hebben ernuff fer me!"

Keep away from trouble,—Keep away, I say!He will double, double,If you walk his way;Go the other path-way;Pass the rascal by;Keep your face a-smilingFor the glory-sky!

The man that can't find any heaven in this world of sunshine has no promise of getting a chance to hunt for it in the next.

David said in his haste that all men are liars; and the Good Book does not record that he took it back after he had plenty of time to think it over.

The sublime faith that moves mountains and conquers kingdoms is frequently helpless and hopeless against the clatter of a garrulous tongue.

I sho'ly doan't knowWhut soht ob a placeDat de Lawd's fixin' soFoh his own culled race;But ef he "in dat day"Wants de dahkeys ter catch,Give 'em banjoes ter playIn a big millon patch!Millon patch thet's so longDey can nevab git cross it,En a feller not strongJes' purtendin' ter boss it;Whar nebber's a dogTer molest whut yuh swipe,En wharebber yuh jogAll de millons ah ripe!

I sho'ly doan't knowWhut soht ob a placeDat de Lawd's fixin' soFoh his own culled race;But ef he "in dat day"Wants de dahkeys ter catch,Give 'em banjoes ter playIn a big millon patch!

Millon patch thet's so longDey can nevab git cross it,En a feller not strongJes' purtendin' ter boss it;Whar nebber's a dogTer molest whut yuh swipe,En wharebber yuh jogAll de millons ah ripe!

"Things ah sholy lookin' up ahroun' de cabin dese heah days!" said the jubilant darkey. "With watah-millons crowdin' de cohn-rows full, de cotton laid by, en fohty canderdates runnin' foh office, de bankrup'cy cou't am moah den foh hund'ed miles away, shuah!"

In the happy days of childhood,By the river's rushing tide,Where the crystal waters murmuredOver all the ripples wide,It was perfect joy to angleThrough the spring time's laughing dayThough we only caught the minnowsAnd the big fish got away.'Twas no matter how we waited,How we watched with anxious eyes,—For the finny tribe to yield usCaptures of enormous size;There was always disappointmentFilling us with deep dismay,For we only caught the minnowsAnd the big fish got away!And it's much the same in manhood!As we line the stream of life,Fishing for the fame and fortuneIn the waters full of strife,It's no matter how we angleAs the young years turn to gray,We can only catch the minnowsAnd the big fish get away!But the sport, the sport, is royal,And it never had a match!So it's really unimportantAs to what we lose or catch!Let us use our highest effortsTill the Father calls to say:"What a splendid mess of minnowsThough the big fish got away!"

'Twas no matter how we waited,How we watched with anxious eyes,—For the finny tribe to yield usCaptures of enormous size;There was always disappointmentFilling us with deep dismay,For we only caught the minnowsAnd the big fish got away!

And it's much the same in manhood!As we line the stream of life,Fishing for the fame and fortuneIn the waters full of strife,It's no matter how we angleAs the young years turn to gray,We can only catch the minnowsAnd the big fish get away!

But the sport, the sport, is royal,And it never had a match!So it's really unimportantAs to what we lose or catch!Let us use our highest effortsTill the Father calls to say:"What a splendid mess of minnowsThough the big fish got away!"

Christianity and religion are great things, but a holy life knocks the spots off them both in the long run.

Wealth comes from toil and sacrifice, but the treasures of the heart are vaccinated with love and are the parents of all real happiness.

There is no use to spend any time in worrying about the next world. Take care of the world you have, and the next one will take care of itself and you, too.

It's better to whistle than cry, brother,It's better to whistle than cry;The day may be gloomy and drearyAnd black with the storms of the sky;But whistle your heart to the sorrows!They'll smile as they hurry you by!It's better to whistle than cry, brother,It's better to whistle than cry!

"Mary Jane," said Farmer Jim to his wife as he pondered over the letter just received from their boy Silas who was away at College; "Mary Jane, what does Si mean about all this 'tarnal athletic business he's a-talkin' of?"

Mary Jane had been a school-teacher before she married Farmer Jim, and so she quickly explained:

"Why, he means dumb-bells and Indian clubs and trapezes and such things, to give exercise to the boys, father."

"Wull, I'll be dumb-belled ef I had him out yander in the cottonfield a-choppin' out the crab-grass, I guess he'd git all the exercise he wanted!" snorted Farmer Jim.

Away with the sorrow,The troubles and tears!We'll laugh with the morrowThrough all of the years.Away with the errorsThat scourge as a rod!Our sins and our terrorsShall vanish with God.The sob of our sadnessShall cease bye and bye;Away to the gladness,—We're bound for the sky.

Away with the sorrow,The troubles and tears!We'll laugh with the morrowThrough all of the years.

Away with the errorsThat scourge as a rod!Our sins and our terrorsShall vanish with God.

The sob of our sadnessShall cease bye and bye;Away to the gladness,—We're bound for the sky.

"Doan't yuh talk ter me erbout yoh tahrpin en clam-bakes en yoistah fries!" exclaimed a recently arrived Guthrie coon. "Des' gib me sweet-'taters smotahed in 'possum gravy en all baked brown like we uster hab 'em down in ole Mississip! Go' way, niggah! Dat wuz high-libben like de real ahticle, I done tole ye!"

The bright side! The bright side! In spite of wind and snow,The summer comes in beauty and buds and blossoms grow,And whatsoe'er the fortune that brings the rose or rue,A kindly Heart in heaven is taking care of you!

The bright side! The bright side!Through all the hours of night,The holy stars are watching you with sentinels of light,And no matter how the sorrows may darken all the day,The pleasures come in legions and drive their ghosts away.

The bright side! The bright side!Though disappointments throng,Sweet labor lifts the burden and satisfies with song,And after all the sadness that shades the rugged life,There's glory for the struggle and slumber for the strife.

The bright side! The bright side!The side that's always thereAcross the ways I wander and all the paths of care;No matter what the darkness, the storm of land or sea,The bright side still is shining, and that's the side for me!

Don't cry over spilled milk. Tie up another cow, and try it again.

Don't trail over the world hunting for happiness with a candle, when the sunshine Of God's mercy is over every thing.

Who can understand the deeps and heights of another's nature? Nay, who can measure and comprehend even his own?

Four-tined forks are splendid implements in the hay-field, but any fork is a mighty poor thing to impale the gorgeous bliss reposing in a ripe water-melon's ruddy heart.

No doubt, we all have troublesThat arise from this and that,And we seldom make a home-runThough we're often at the bat;But the prince of all the fellowsThat performs the wildest breaks,Is the chap that brings the burdensOf the weather man's mistakes."Sunday, fair and cool and pleasant"So you hie yourself awayTo the wild-wood sweet and shadyFor a joyous, happy day;Then the rain comes down in torrentsTill it drowns the very snakes,And you have a high exampleOf the weather man's mistakes."Wednesday, storm, perhaps a cyclone!"So you stay at home and wait,With your windows tightly shutteredFor a hurricano great;But it's all as mild as morning,And you shout, "Of all the fakes!"While you grumble, wildly helpless,At the weather man's mistakes.And some day a patient peopleTurned to furies by their wrongs,Will arise and smite the buildingWhere the weather man belongs;And whatever then shall happen,They will know the joy that wakes,When no longer made to sufferFrom the weatherman's mistakes!

"Sunday, fair and cool and pleasant"So you hie yourself awayTo the wild-wood sweet and shadyFor a joyous, happy day;Then the rain comes down in torrentsTill it drowns the very snakes,And you have a high exampleOf the weather man's mistakes.

"Wednesday, storm, perhaps a cyclone!"So you stay at home and wait,With your windows tightly shutteredFor a hurricano great;But it's all as mild as morning,And you shout, "Of all the fakes!"While you grumble, wildly helpless,At the weather man's mistakes.

And some day a patient peopleTurned to furies by their wrongs,Will arise and smite the buildingWhere the weather man belongs;And whatever then shall happen,They will know the joy that wakes,When no longer made to sufferFrom the weatherman's mistakes!

Dear Lord, I ask not that I live so longThat all the joy is gathered, all the rose;But rather let me perish, ere the Song,The highest Hope and perfect Vision close!

Talk about the joys of winter! Whut's the fun of foolin' roundWith the posies dead en buried, en the snows upon the ground?When the wind's a-tossin' blizzards in a most distressin' wayTell you have to set a-straddle of the fire-place all the day!But I tell ye life's a-livin' when the summer grows the grassOver all the nooks en crannies whayre a feller's feet kin pass,En the whole world seems of heaven but a half-forgotten type,When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

Roas'in'-ears is best of eatin', though not very much fer style!Shuck an arm-full fer yer dinner, sot 'em on en let 'em bile;Salt 'em well, en smear some butter on the juicy cobs ez sweetEz the lips of maple-suger thet yer sweet-heart has to eat!Talk about ole Mount Olympus en the stuff them roosters spreadOn theyr tables when they feasted,—nectar drink, ambrosia bread,—Why, I tell ye, fellers, never would I swop the grub I swipeWhen the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter millons ripe!

Near the sugar camps of glory is the worter millon patchLike a great big nest of goodies thet is jest a-gone to hatch;En ye take yer thumb en finger in an ecstasy so drunkThet ye hardly hear the music of theyr dreamy plunky-plunk!En the griefs air gone ferever, en the sorrers lose controlEz ye feed the angel in ye on the honeys of a soul,En ye smack yer lips with laughter while the birds of heaven pipe,When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

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